The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile "Sapper". Sapper
birds sing or put buttercups in his hair. He sat in his corner sunk in silence while the powerful limousine ate up the miles to London. And his companion Freyder knew better than to break that silence.
It was not until the tramlines at Hounslow were reached that he spoke.
"If I fail to settle accounts with Drummond this time, Freyder, I'll do as he once recommended and take to growing tomatoes."
Freyder grunted. "The notes first, Chief, and after that the man. You'll win this time."
He spoke down the speaking-tube and the car slowed up.
"I'll get out here; our man is close-to. And I'll be back tomorrow evening."
He gave the chauffeur the name of a residential hotel in a quiet part of Bayswater, and stood for a moment watching the car drive away. Then he turned and disappeared down a side-street, while Mr Robinson continued his journey alone. There was nothing more to be done now until Freyder returned, and so, in accordance with his in variable custom, he dismissed the matter from his mind.
To do in Rome as the Romans was another rule of his. And so after dinner at the quiet residential hotel Mr Robinson joined heartily in a merry round game which lacked much of its charm as two cards were missing from the pack. Then refusing with becoming modesty a challenge to take on the hotel champion at halma, he retired to his room and was asleep almost at once. And he was still peacefully sleeping at five o'clock the next morning, when Freyder, shivering a little in the morning air, drew his thick leather coat more closely around his throat. Below him lay the grey sea—hazy still, for the sun had no warmth as yet. In front the pilot was sitting motionless, and after a while the steady roar of the engine lulled him into a gentle doze. The aeroplane flew steadily on towards the east... and Germany.
VI. — IN WHICH HUGH DRUMMOND LOSES HIS SELF- CONTROL.
It must be admitted that there was an air of gloom over Hugh Drummond's house on the day following the inquest. Mrs Goodman and Brenda had not left their rooms, and somewhat naturally Phyllis was principally occupied in seeing what she could do for them in their terrible sorrow; while Algy Longworth, faced with the necessity of postponing the wedding, had relapsed into a condition of complete imbecility and refused to be comforted. In fact it was not an atmosphere conducive to thought, and Hugh was trying to think.
On the next day was the funeral. The whole thing had already dropped out of the public eye; Professor Goodman, having been neither a pugilist, film star, nor criminal, but merely a gentle old man of science, could lay no claim whatever to the slightest popular interest. But to Hugh he was something more than a gentle old man of science. He was a man who to all intents and purposes had appealed to him for help—a man whose life had been threatened, and who, within a few hours of receiving that threat, had died.
True, according to the verdict at the inquest, he would have died whether he had received that threat or not. But Hugh was still dissatisfied with that verdict. The proofs, the evidence, all pointed that way—but he was still dissatisfied. And coupled with his dissatisfaction was an uneasy feeling, which only grew stronger with time, that he had been wrong to suppress his knowledge of that letter from the police.
Now it was impossible to put it forward, but that made things no better. The only result in fact as far as he was concerned was that it hardened his resolve not to let the matter drop where it was. Until after the funeral he would say nothing; then he'd begin some inquiries on his own. And for those inquiries two obvious avenues suggested themselves: the first was Professor Scheidstrun, the second Sir Raymond Blantyre.
Once again he took the Professor's notes out of his pocket-book and studied them. He had already shown one sheet to a chemist in a neighbouring street in the hope that he might be able to decipher it, but with no result. The atrocious handwriting, coupled with the fact that, according to the chemist, it was written in a sort of code, made them completely incomprehensible to anyone save the man who wrote them. And he was dead....
With a sigh he replaced the papers in his notecase and strolled over to the window. Brook Street presented a quiescent appearance, due to the warmth of the day and the recent consumption by its dwellers of lunch. And Hugh was just wondering what form of exercise he could most decently take in view of Mrs Goodman's presence in the house, when he straightened up and his eyes became suddenly watchful. A wild, excited figure whom he recognised instantly was tacking up the street, peering with short sighted eyes at the numbers of the houses.
"Algy!"
"What is it?" grunted Longworth, coming out of a melancholy reverie.
"Old Scheidstrun is blowing up the street. He's looking for a house. Surely he can't be coming here?" Algy Longworth sat up in his chair.
"You mean the old bloke who gave evidence at the inquest?" Hugh nodded. "By Jove! he is coming here." His voice held traces of excitement. "Now, why the deuce should he want to see me?" He went quickly to the door. "Denny," he called, and his servant, who was already on his way to the front door, paused and looked up. "Show the gentleman outside straight up here to my room."
He came back frowning thoughtfully. "How on earth does he connect me with it, Algy?"
"It's more than likely, old man," answered Longworth, "that he may have heard that Mrs Goodman is here, and has come to shoot a card. Anyway, we'll soon know."
A moment later Denny ushered Professor Scheidstrun into the room. Seen from close-to, he seemed more untidy and egg-stained than ever, as he stood by the door peering at the two young men. "Captain Drummond?" he demanded in his hoarse, guttural voice.
"That's me," said Hugh, who was standing with his back to the fireplace regarding his visitor curiously. "What can I do for you, sir?" The Professor waved his arms like an agitated semaphore and sank into a chair. "Doubtless you wonder who I may be," he remarked, "and what for I come you to see."
"I know perfectly well who you are," said Drummond quietly, "but I confess I'm beat as to why you want to see me. However, the pleasure is entirely mine."
"So." The German stared at him. "You know who I am?"
"You are Professor Scheidstrun," remarked Drummond. "I was present at the inquest yesterday and saw you."
"Goot." The Professor nodded his head as if satisfied, though his brain was busy with this very unexpected item of news. "Then I will proceed at once to the business. In the excitement of all this dreadful accident I had forgotten it until this moment. Then I remember and come to you at once."
He was fumbling in his pocket as he spoke. "A letter, Captain Drummond, which my poor friend give to me to post—and I forgot it till an hour ago. And I say at once, I will go round myself and see this gentleman and explain."
Drummond took the envelope and glanced at it thoughtfully, while Algy looked over his shoulder. "That's Professor Goodman's writing."
"Since he the letter wrote presumably it is," remarked the German with ponderous sarcasm.
"You know the contents of this letter, Professor?" asked Drummond, as he slit open the envelope.
"He read it to me," answered the other. "Ach! it is almost incredible that what my dear friend should have said to me in jest—indeed that which he has written there in jest—should have proved true. Even now I can hardly believe that he is dead. It is a loss, gentlemen, to the world of science which can never be replaced."
He rambled on while Drummond, having read the letter in silence, handed it to Algy. And if for one fleeting second there showed in the German's eyes a gleam of almost maniacal hatred as they rested on the owner of the house, it was gone as suddenly as it came. The look on his face was benevolent, even sad, as befitted a man who had recently lost a confrere and friend, when Drummond turned and spoke again.
"The letter is a request, Professor, that certain notes now in my possession should be handed over to you."
"That is so,"